"My suitcase isn’t here," I finally concluded, after watching the same six bags circle around and around the baggage carousel. There were a few people left from our flight, the majority having retrieved their bags long since.

"That’s just bloody terrific," Spike grumbled.

"We have to go to the claim office," I said. "There, it’s this way." Spike picked up my carryon and the doctor’s bag, and I slung my laptop over my shoulder. We headed for the glassed-in office, where a line of people was already waiting.

"Another sodding queue," Spike complained.

"This shouldn’t take too long," I said.

An hour later, I sat down in front of a tired looking woman, who handed me a form and a glossy sheet covered with pictures of luggage. "Fill out that form," she said. "We’ll need to know the address of where you’ll be staying."

"I don’t know where we’ll be staying," I replied.

"I do," Spike said. He took the form and filled in an address. "Same place I always stay."

"Is it expensive?" I asked.

"Hotel’s on me," he said, handing the form to the clerk.

"We’ll call you when we locate your bag," she said.

We walked through the airport, following the signs that pointed to taxis. I thought a bit about the kind of hotel where Spike would enjoy staying, and began to worry. "Is it in a safe neighborhood?" I asked. "There’s a really good hotel near my aunt’s apartment. We could stay there."

He looked at me seriously. "I wouldn’t do anything to put you at risk. Trust me, you’ll enjoy the hotel."

"Okay," I agreed, sounding less than convinced. We passed a bank of windows, the sunlight shining brightly. "The sun is up," I said, startled. "It was still dark when we landed."

"We lost time dithering over the bleeding baggage," Spike said.

"Well, how are we going to get you into a cab?" I asked.

He shrugged. "Run for it, I guess. "

Ten minutes later, we were curbside. Spike stood under an overhang, clutching a large golf umbrella that proclaimed "I Love New York," as a man in a uniform got a taxi for us. Spike climbed inside the yellow minivan. "222 West 23^rd Street. It’s between 7^th and 8^th."

I pulled out my cell phone and dialed the number for home. The phone rang four times before a sleepy voice picked up. "Hello?"

"Hi Buffy, it's Willow."

"Um, hi," she said. "Is there a problem?"

"No, I just wanted to let you know we’d arrived."

"It’s three in the morning," she informed me. "Could you please call back later?"

"Sorry, sorry," I said, and she hung up.

"That was brilliant," Spike said.

"I really don’t have a comeback," I replied. "That was just majorly stupid. Blame the tiredness." According to my body clock, it was about four AM. All I wanted to do was sleep.

"We’ve got a half-hour cab ride ahead of us," Spike said. "Why don’t you rest?"

I thought about leaning my head on his shoulder, but turned my head against the cool glass of the window and closed my eyes. I let my mind close down, focusing on the hum of the pavement under the tires and the sound of the engine. Reaching down into the earth, I pulled the soothing force of magick all around me, grounding me and calming my frazzled nerves. I let everything go, and let the energy gather me to itself in a tight embrace.

"Rise and shine," Spike said in my ear. I opened my eyes and saw that we had stopped in front of a huge red brick building. I paid the driver and unloaded our bags. Spike grabbed the laptop and carryon from me as soon as we were under the cover of a large red and white striped awning.

I followed him through the glass doors into the lobby. I stopped short, looking around as Spike headed for the front desk. The walls were covered with paintings, hung from floor to ceiling in no apparent order. There was a huge painting of the head of a white horse, in between an intricate mandala and a Rubenesque nude. A sculpture of a winged cherub hung from the ceiling, next to an elegant crystal chandelier.

Spike was already talking to the clerk, his face annoyed. "Can you put us in another room then?"

The clerk shook his head. "We’re full up."

"Get me Billy," Spike said abruptly.

The clerk made a quick phone call, and within a few minutes a tall slender man with silver hair walked into the lobby. "What seems to be the problem?" he asked smoothly.

"The problem," Spike said irritated, "Is that you’ve booked someone in my bloody room, and now genius here is telling me that I can’t have another one."

The older man did a double take. "Spike? My God."

Spike smiled and hugged the other man, patting him on the back. "Good to see you, mate."

The man looked at him, eyes wide. "Spike. I can’t believe that its really you."

"Well, believe it. Now, about my room…"

Billy held his hands open wide. "Spike, there’s only so much I can do..."

Spike lost it, spectacularly. I took a step back, watching him let loose with more anger and venom then I had seen him exhibit since I was a hair away from having a bottle shoved through my face. "We had a deal!" he hissed, his hands clenched into fists. "You owe me, you know you bloody well owe me, and you’d better get me a room and clear out whoever is in my room toute fucking suite, Billy, or we are going to have a serious problem."

"You haven’t been back since 1978," Billy began. "Dalton didn’t let me know…"

Spike slammed both hands on the counter and growled. It was a low, deep predatory sound that made every hair on the back of my neck stand up.

In under a minute, we were making our way upstairs in an impossibly slow elevator. It smelled like ammonia and stale perfume, and someone had carved the word "ghosts" in one of the walls. We got out on the seventh floor, walking down a narrow brown linoleum hallway to the door. Billy opened it with a key, and we walked inside, startling a man and woman who were engaged in some very enthusiastic sex on a futon in the middle of an utterly empty room. "Get the fuck out!" the man yelled.

"Sorry," I muttered, as we went back out into the hallway.

The next room we saw, up on the ninth floor, was blessedly empty. It was decorated in wild splashes of color, and set up like a studio apartment. Spike pressed a twenty-dollar bill into Billy’s hand. "Good chap. Sorry about the tantrum." The man nodded warily and left the room, leaving us alone.

The room contained a cast iron four poster bed, a couch shaped like a gigantic hand, a tiny kitchen, a kidney shaped coffee table, a cherry red dinette set, and an fuschia armoire holding a television set. A clothes rack in one corner held an assortment of brightly colored dresses, and a beaded curtain led into a crammed bathroom.

"This place is so tiny," I told Spike.

He looked surprised. "It’s pretty big for Manhattan."

"I was expecting my own room," I said. "I’ve been living with a minimum of four other people in my personal space for weeks. I want to have a little privacy."

"I wouldn’t mind a bit of that myself," Spike reminded me. "But I can’t look after you if you’re across the hall or on another floor." He shrugged off his coat, throwing it on the couch. He took his cigarettes from his pocket and lit one with a large lighter that lay on the table, next to a book of photographs by Mapplethorpe.

I looked around the room. There were personal possessions everywhere, including photos. "This doesn’t look like any hotel room I’ve ever seen."

"Most of the rooms belong to people who live here," Spike explained. "They rent them out for extra cash."

"That’s very bizarre," I replied.

"That’s the Chelsea," he replied with a smile.

I yawned. My head hurt, and I felt absolutely exhausted. "I need to take a nap. I’m really tired."

"You go right ahead," Spike said. "I’m going to take care of a little business, but I’m not leaving the Chelsea. You’ll be safe enough here, so just sleep well. I’ll be back before you’re awake."

I pulled off my shoes and socks and lay down on the bed. The coverlet was thick, nappy velvet, and the pillow was soft. I listened to the dim sound of the traffic outside the windows and fell asleep.

When I woke up, it was dark outside, streetlights glowing outside the windows. I squinted at my watch, and saw that it was three thirty. Six thirty, here. I’d slept away my first day in New York.

Spike was sprawled out on the couch wearing a white T-shirt and a pair of black leather pants. The coffee table next to him was covered with empty blood bags and an overflowing ashtray. He was reading and smoking, his eyes fixed on his book. "Why did you let me sleep so long?" I asked him.

"Because you were knackered," he said, still reading. "None of you Slayerettes have had a lick of rest for weeks. You needed it."

"What I need is to find what we came for so that we can go back home," I said, sitting up and stretching.

He turned a page in his book. "We have an appointment tomorrow with the curator. Nine AM, sharp."

"The curator of what?" I asked him.

"The Asia Society," he said. "That’s what’s at the address you had for the Watchers. The curator is the man in charge."

"What if he won’t let us look for information?" I asked.

"Then we’ll break in," he said, unperturbed.

There was a really unpleasant aroma in the room, and after subtly sniffing, I realized it was me. I smelled like BO and vomit. "I’m going to take a shower, and change into some clean clothes," I said.

"You do that," Spike said, already lost in his book.

I’d forgotten that I didn’t have my suitcase. I also didn’t have a toothbrush or a hairbrush or anything. Great. I stepped into the bathroom and took off my clothes. I could see Spike clearly through the beaded curtain, but he was facing away from me, he was reading, and he probably wouldn’t be impressed anyway. The linoleum was really cold under my feet as I turned the knobs on the shower. There was no soap in the dish and no shampoo. I turned around and spotted a shoebox full of tiny toiletry bottles sitting on the toilet tank. I selected shampoo from the Taj Mahal in Las Vegas and shower gel from the Jerusalem Hilton, and enjoyed a long, hot, shower. The water pressure was intense, pounding hard on my skin, and it felt so good.

I stepped out of the shower and wrapped myself in a scratchy white towel. Above the towel rack was a shelf that held a large selection of perfume bottles. They were large and intricate, and one of them I recognized.

My great aunt Elsie had worn this perfume, and when she’d died I’d received a hatbox of her silk scarves, and they all smelled like it. I unstopped the bottle and inhaled. The smell was reassuring, one spot of comfort in a weird room in a strange city that made me feel lost and scared. Spraying some on my wrists and neck, I made a mental note to buy myself some.

I caught my reflection in the mirror. Now I smelled good, but I looked like crap. I finger combed my hair, and I really wished that I had my wonderful ionic blow dryer, currently sitting in my suitcase somewhere in the world. But there were bigger things to be annoyed about, like no fresh underwear. Uck.

I just didn’t want to put dirty clothes back on again. With a sigh, I walked out into the other room. Spike was engrossed in his book again, sparing himself the sight of Willow-in-a-towel. I looked through the dresses on the rack, and finally selected the most sedate looking thing near my size: a one-shouldered acid green dress of burned velvet, with an asymmetrical hem.

I took it into the bathroom and put it on. It looked a little tight but otherwise good until I slipped on my boxer shorts underneath it, and then I saw the distinct outline of waistband and hems under the velvet. After weighing the health risks of wearing someone else’s dress with no underwear, I decided to go for it.

I walked back out into the room. "There’s a great restaurant downstairs if you’re-" Spike furrowed his brows. "That’s quite a look, there."

"My clothes smell horrible," I explained. "Do you think that the person who owns the room would mind me borrowing it?"

Spike shrugged. "If they were really against it, they probably wouldn’t have left them out. " He tilted his head and looked at me. "You sure you want to go out in that?"

I looked down. "Is this too dressy for downstairs?"

"No," he said flatly. "Put your shoes on, and lets go."

I put my ankle socks and Keds back on, and we left the room. I walked into the elevator in front of Spike, and heard him snicker. "Something funny?" I asked, looking over my shoulder.

"Nothing," he said, smirking. "Just admiring the ensemble of evening gown and athletic shoes."

I sighed. "Did you hear back from the airline about my suitcase?"

"Not a peep," he said.

"I’ll have to pick up some new clothes tonight. I am not going to walk around New York wearing no underwear indefinitely," I said as the doors opened, revealing two matronly women waiting for the elevator, giving me horrified looks.

"We should have stayed at the Waldorf," hissed one woman to another. "She’s probably a hooker!"

Spike laughed and took my arm, maneuvering me past the biddies. "So, have you ever read Cervantes?"

I thought it was a weird question until we walked into the restaurant. It looked like the props department for a production of Man of La Mancha had exploded. The décor included a huge painting of a flamenco dancer, hundreds of figures of Don Quixote and a model of a windmill. "Welcome to the El Quixote," said a smiling man in a linen shirt and a short black waiter’s jacket. "How many will be dining tonight?" he asked with a heavy Spanish accent.

"Just two," Spike replied. We followed him past the bar, which was packed with a bizarre assortment of people who looked like my grandparents, or supermodels, or homeless people. The host sat us at a leather banquette, and the man handed us large tasseled menus.

"What’s good here?" I asked.

"Sangria and paella," he replied. "Lobster in green sauce. Chorizo."

I shook my head. "It’s like a treyfe-apolooza." He looked at me confusedly. "Treyfe," I explained. "Not kosher. Like, shrimp and lobster and pork. All on the big no-no list."

"You keep kosher?" he asked.

"No, of course not. It’s just…" I stopped, thinking of how ridiculous it was.

"Just what?" Spike asked curiously.

"When I was a little kid, I thought God would kill me if I ate food that wasn’t kosher," I explained to Spike. "The first time I ever had a cheeseburger over at Xander’s house, I lay awake all night waiting for God to hit me with a big old sparky thunderbolt."

"And you’re still waiting for the wrath of God to come down on you?" he asked.

"Well, I think if he didn’t smite me for being gay, worshiping false gods or trying to destroy the world, eating shrimp probably won’t make the cut either," I said.

A waiter came and Spike gave our order. In short order, the waiter returned with a plate of sausage and a pitcher filled with red liquid. "Word to the wise," Spike said. "Sangria’s got a kick to it." He poured me a glass and handed it to me.

I took a sip, and it was fruity and tangy and delicious. "It tastes like really strong Kool Aid."

"Well, sangria is no kiddie drink," Spike warned me. "Don’t go overboard or I’ll be carrying you upstairs."

Spike took out a cigarette case and lit a black cigarette. The scent of clove scented smoke drifted towards me. "Can I have one of those?" I asked. "Devon used to smoke those. I love the way they taste."

He handed me the lighter and a cigarette and I slowly inhaled, the rich taste of cloves washing over my tongue. "Yum."

"There’s a place around the corner, they’ve got every cigarette you could imagine. Those are my favorites."

I drank down the first glass quickly and filled another. "It tastes really citrusy," I replied. "No wonder you like it." I sipped my sangria and smoked my cigarette, and suddenly I felt very relaxed. "It’s almost like I’m just a girl in a fancy dress having dinner with a really hot guy."

"You think I’m hot?" Spike asked, tilting his head.

"Huh?"

"Well, I think you’re hot too," Spike said. "You look very sexy in that dress." He smirked, and I wasn’t sure if he was making fun of me or not.

"I was thinking out loud, sorry," I stammered. "Too bad I’m gay and you’re unavailable."

"You’re not gay," Spike announced. "Although, indeed, I am utterly unavailable." He downed his sangria.

"Pardon me?" I asked, not believing what I’d heard.

"Why are you so concerned with labeling yourself?" Spike asked. "Gay? I don’t think so. Every boy or girl fiddled around with the parts of the same sex called themselves gay, there’d be a lot more tolerance in the world." He lit another cigarette and gave me a serious look. "Look. I’ve sucked cock in my time, but you don’t see me pinning on a rainbow button and joining the gay pride parade, do you?"

"It’s about who you’re attracted to," I replied. "I’m attracted to women."

"But you aren’t," Spike argued. "Walking through the airport, in the hotel. The ones your eyes linger on, they aren’t the curvy, full bosomed Sapphic variety. They’re long, lean boys with a good sized bulge in their pants."

"You’re actually going to sit here and argue with me about my sexual orientation?"

He shrugged. "Doesn’t really matter what I think, does it?"

"No, but it pisses me off that you think it’s up for debate," I said. "Like nothing I felt for Tara was real or true, just boring old Willow getting a little kink on before realizing the error of her ways." I felt tears well up as well as anger, and tried hard to stifle both.

"I’m not trivializing how you felt about Tara," he said. "I’m just saying, you’re twenty-one years old. God knows I didn’t know chuck all about sex, much less my own sexuality at that age. I never could have imagined, much less expressed, what I wanted, or needed."

"And now you’re the master of all things sexual?" I scoffed.

"I didn’t say that," Spike said earnestly. "But I do know what I want, and there’s something to be said for that. Not that it much matters right now, but I know. And you’re lying to yourself, and it's good for no one."

"I think maybe you should just shut the fuck up before I shove a toothpick through your heart, okay?"

"Okay," he said softly.

We passed several minutes in silence before the waiter brought a steaming platter of paella and another of lobster. We helped ourselves, and I took a mouthful of seafood. It was delicious. "Look ma, no thunderbolt," I said. Spike ignored me, and I felt guilty. "I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said what I did."

He shrugged. "Seems like a fairly standard Scooby response. My mistake for forgetting my place in the grand scheme of things."

"I’m glad that you’re here," I said. "You’ve been really nice to me on this trip, and I know you didn’t want to come."

"I’ve been enjoying the trip," Spike said. "I feel more solid in my skin away from Sunnydale, more clear than I’ve been for a while. " He fiddled with his wineglass. "I always did love New York, and the Chelsea is more my home than anyplace I’ve lived since I was turned."

"It’s a little funky and a little scary, but cool. Kind of like you."

He smiled at me, and the tension between us drained away. "Have you ever been to New York before?"

"Lots of times as a kid," I said. "My Bubbe and Zayde, they lived in Manhattan until they bought their condo in Miami. The Rosenbergs still live out on Long Island, and I have aunts and uncles and cousins in the city. My Manhattan time has been museums and plays and going to sit on Alice’s lap in Central Park, stuff like that. I’ve never been here as an adult. Being carefully chaperoned in and out of taxi cabs, to safe places, that all I’ve seen, until today."

"Well, there are a few places I know you’ll love," Spike said. "If you’re game, we can go to the Strand after dinner."

"What’s the Strand?" I asked.

"It’s an amazing bookstore," Spike began. "May I help you?’ he asked, looking behind me.

I turned my head to see who he was talking to, and someone grabbed a fistful of my hair. Cold metal slid against the back of my neck and I froze, my heart pounding. "Get away from her, mate," Spike said, moving around the banquette in a smooth motion.

Shears cut into my hair, and I felt small tendrils falling on my shoulder. I heard the noise of fist meeting flesh, then Spike cursing and someone crying out in pain. I went limp and slid underneath the table, scooting out to see what the hell was going on.

Spike was sitting on the floor clutching his head, his shirt littered with locks of my hair. "Are you hurt?" he asked, slowly rising to his feet.

"Are you hurt?’ asked the waiter, running over. "Were you injured?"

"I’m not hurt," I said. I lifted my hand to my hair, and felt my bare neck. "God, why would someone cut off my hair?" I started to cry, confused and mortified, and Spike wrapped his arms around me.

"It’s alright, love. It’ll grow back," he said reassuringly, but the cold edge of anger was underneath his voice.

"Are you okay?" asked a high-pitched voice. I turned around to see a thin woman with a glossy black bob, her face done up in heavy makeup. She had vivid green eyes that looked at me with concern. "Oh, your poor hair," she said, reaching out a hand to touch it. "Let’s get you up to Frederick right away."

Two other women came up behind her and looked at me sympathetically. "Yes, we must get her to Frederick," they agreed. Taking my arm, they led me out of the restaurant. I turned around and saw Spike throwing money down on the table and grabbing his coat. The ladies led me upstairs into the Chelsea and up several flights of stairs, knocking on a door that was covered with brightly painted plaster casts of eyes. Blue, green, black, they all stared at me disconcertingly.

The door opened, and I was swept into what looked like a hair salon. In short order, the three ladies were explaining what had happened to the hairstylist as he wrapped me in a long plastic cape.

"She could carry off a cut like Edie had," one of them argued.

"No, she would look perfect with a little shag," another said.

"I just want it to be even," I said. ‘So it will grow out to look normal. Eventually." Looking in the mirror, my hair ended above the ear on one side and on the other trailed down to where it had been before the hack attack, a little below my shoulders.

"Is this the color that you intended it to be?" the stylist asked in accented English. "This copperish hue?" His whiskered face puckered with disdain.

"Don’t pick at her, Frederick," Spike said. I couldn’t see him in the mirror, but it sounded like he was behind me, near the door.

"Spike!" the stylist said, his face astonished. "My God! It has been years." He frowned. "And yet, the hair is the same."

"I like to stick with the classics," Spike said. "Now, can you fix up my friend, please?"

"Certainly," Frederick said. "Absolument."

He cut it with a razor, creating a flurry of short layers that cupped around my face and cheeks. "Do you want to color it to match your roots?" he asked. "It would be more naturelle, than this brassiness."

"Okay," I agreed.

Within an hour, he was blowing out my hair with a painfully hot metal brush, and then he turned me to face the mirror. My reflection reminded me of a horrible haircut I’d had in the seventh grade, all ears sticking out and dowdy brown layers. I looked like a dork.

"Well?" said Frederick expectantly as he whipped off the cape I was wearing.

"It’s just great," I said. "Thanks so much." I got out of the chair and swept stray hairs off my velvet dress.

"It is on me," he replied graciously. "To repay you for your awful incident downstairs. New York is full of the crazies."

"You look beautiful honey," one of the ladies said. "Enjoy it."

The black haired one handed me a card. "Come and see our show, we’d love to have you." She turned and smiled at Spike. "And your very fine looking man friend, too."

"We’re here on business," I explained. "But we’ll try to make time."

"Let’s get going," Spike said shortly, taking my arm.

"Thanks for everything," I called out as we left the room.

We walked to the elevator in silence. "You hate it," he said quietly.

"I feel really ugly," I said.

"It doesn’t look bad," he assured me. "You have a very expensive haircut from one of the best stylists in New York."

"I wish I had my own hair back," I said. "I don’t understand why anyone would do that to me."

"It could be totally random," Spike said. "Or someone could have taken it to use for a spell. Hair or nail from a potential victim, that’s one of the most powerful tools someone could have against you."

"You think we should do a protection spell?" I asked.

"The sooner the better," he replied.

"I have most everything here," I said. "But I will need to get a few components."

Spike nodded. "There’s a magick store nearby. Let’s go."

We headed through the lobby and outside, where Spike tried to hail a cab. I shivered, freezing in the winter cold with no coat. "You want my coat?" he offered.

I slid it on. It didn’t add that much warmth, but it was better than nothing. Soon we were in a cab, and Spike gave an address. After about ten minutes, we arrived at a storefront that displayed a dizzying array of crystals, some as huge as watermelons. I paid for the cab and we walked inside.

The centerpiece of the store was a waterfall that cascaded down from the second level, filling the store with the sound of falling water. A rack of ritual robes in a rainbow of colors was against one wall, cases of jewelry and precious stones against the other. "This is a wonderful store," I said to Spike.

"It was a little darker and murkier last time I was here," he commented.

We walked past displays of incense and candles to a bank of glass jars on shelves. I quickly gathered the ingredients for a counterspell. "I’m not sure I can do this by myself," I told Spike.

"I can help," he said. "I’m not an advocate of summoning forces much more powerful than yourself, but I’ve been known to do it on occasion."

I selected some candles and incense, a small metal cauldron and some salt, and a large piece of clear quartz. After paying for our purchases, we got back into a cab.

Spike was quiet for a few minutes, staring out the window. "I don’t think Buffy sent the right person for this job."

"Why do you say that?" I asked.

"She knows there’s no demon I can’t defeat, and she was right on that score. The Harbingers, I can kill as many as the First wants to throw at me. But anything else, I can’t protect you. I couldn’t even stop a doddering old man from cutting off your hair," he said bitterly.

"It’s just hair," I said gently.

Spike looked at me, his face shadowed. "He could have just as easily slit your throat, and all I would have been able to do was watch."

The thought was chilling. I thought of my fear, my frozen response to the metal on my neck. "Take my hand," I said softly.

Without hesitation, he did. I closed my hand around his palm and shut my eyes. With my energy, I probed inside his head. Shadows and memories flashed all around, and I did my best to ignore them, to let him keep his privacy.

I felt the chip inside his head, and made it go away. Spike pulled away from me, and I opened my eyes. "Are you okay?" I asked. "Did I hurt you?" He was huddled in the corner of the cab, his hands pressed to his head. "Spike?" I slid across the seat and put my arm around his shoulder. "Did I hurt you?"

He looked up at me, and his eyes were wet with tears. "It didn’t hurt at all."

-TBC-